


Passage of Time

by amuk



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Community: 31_days, Experimentation, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Loss, Lost Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amuk/pseuds/amuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how the decades pass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passage of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: 16. Times change and we change with the times

0.

 

The boat docks safely, as expected. Even with most of the crew gone, swallowed by the power-hungry Szilard, they turned it safely to port.

 

No one speaks of that night—Maiza and Sylvie quietly mourn Gretto’s death and don’t smile, despite Elmer’s efforts.

 

One by one, they get off, vanishing into the crowd.

 

And if, sometime during the night, the boat is burned, no one admits to it.

 

Some things are better left buried.

 

10.

 

Sylvie waits a few years before she even looks at the bottle. It remains where she left, sitting behind her books, and she forgets about it for a while.

 

Or at least tries to, because Gretto talks to her sometimes. Gretto with his soft hands and kind smile and serious promises. Gretto who now lives in the flesh of a monster.

 

“How are you?” Considerate, still, even in death. She makes no move to reply, hasn’t for the past year. It hurts too much and she’s only now learned how to numb the pain.

 

“You look beautiful.” And perhaps she does—she’s grown a little taller, a little rounder. There’s not as much baby fat on her face.

 

This is the body of an adult, she knows.

 

“I’ve always wanted to see an older Sylvie. You should talk to those guys—they seem serious about courting you.”

 

 _And so were you,_ she wants to reply. _But where did that get you?_

 

Instead, she says nothing, just carefully removes the books in front of the bottle. The liquid is deceptive in there, almost innocent, and she resists the urge to toss the bottle. Uncorking, she takes one last glance in the mirror and gulps it down.

 

She’s ready now.

 

35.

 

Czes doesn’t know the meaning of pain anymore. His fingers are broken again, smashed and beyond recognition, and he thinks he might have lost one of his feet. Maybe both, he doesn’t feel anything below his knees and only the barest hints of something above that.

 

Maybe he’s just lost half his body instead. It wouldn’t surprise him. His tongue still burns, smouldering in his mouth, and his left ear is only now regenerating.

 

“Just a few more tests.” Ferment gives him a smile—it’s an ugly thing, twisted with hunger and greed and this insufferable need to _know._

 

Czes can’t remember why he ever trusted that smile before. It’s certainly lying now—every now and then he chants those words, parading them around as though to say the end is coming in sight.

 

It is, just not in the way Ferment expects. Czes waits for his fingers to start working again and bides his time.

 

60.

 

He’s a picky eater now. His hunger, insatiable and indiscriminate, has finally tamed after eating a dozen immortals.

 

It’s just as well, they’re harder to find these days. Instead, Szilard focuses on other subjects. His immortality potions have yet to produce any levity, usually resulting in nothing or death.

 

The few that have survived without aging he ate, taking care to note any changes they’ve felt as he works on the next batch. And there is always a next batch—another group of fools who desire immortality without realizing its price.

 

There’s one waiting right now below and as he fixes his tie in the mirror, he pauses. It would be useful to have another pair of hands in this project of his.

 

Especially if they are obedient and don’t hesitate to follow his commands, no matter what they might be.

 

People like that don’t exist, but they can be made.

 

They can be _created._

 

He smiles at that.

 

40.

 

145 years. He’s lived a long time since that potion, when he thinks about it. Clothing has changed and people have changed and there is one thing that has not changed.

 

People don’t smile enough. This is a fact. Elmer has lived from country to country, watched as towns grew overnight and cities crumbled in the dawn, and yet this fact hasn’t changed.

 

In fact, it might be getting worse because he thinks there have been fewer smiles lately. He’s in America now, this new country of hopes and dreams. Maiza’s rumoured to be here now, hidden in one of the crevices of this land that people would rather not acknowledge.

 

A visit is long overdue. The last time they saw each other was eighty years ago, in a small town in England, and that was only in passing. He didn’t smile that time, not in a true way. Instead, he calmly sipped his whisky and tipped his hat before disappearing into the crowd once more.

 

Elmer wonders if Maiza remembers how to smile now. 

 

32.

 

It took him a few years to even consider doing this and he still doesn’t know why he’s agreed to it. It’s probably because Elmer, despite his carefree mindset, is usually right about these things. Or maybe it’s because Ronny—and where did he pick up Ronny?—seems interested in this, for once.

 

Either way, he’s now forced to eat large meals with larger groups of people, in over-filled dining rooms and crowded kitchen corners. The meals aren’t always pleasant—chores here are switched around as the members have yet to find wives and the few women in the group are fighters primarily.

 

They switch chores, living in this noisy house that’s probably past its carrying capacity. He cooks every other week and cleans maybe once every three months, when the blood stains and grime are too much. As it is, right now, they’re playing a poker game and one of the younger members is staring at him expectantly, an invitation to join leaving his lips.

 

The mafia isn’t quite what he expected. It’s cosy, almost, and everyone greets him despite his recent arrival.

 

The boy is still staring at him, so he gives a gentle twist of the lips before following him to the table.

 

20.

 

This is possibly his most favourite experiment. Chane is watching him, silently, as he moves to make his recent purchase. She looks good in the darker colours, in the blacks and violets he likes to buy. Most of the dresses are lacy things, as the style goes these days, and each dress is a good fit.

 

She still says nothing, following him as he exits the shop. Even as Huey leaves his hand dangling there, she doesn’t reach up for it. Instead, she keeps one step behind him and matches him move for move.

 

Chane’s a little predictable like that, taking the path that benefits him the most, that takes him the farthest.

 

“Chane, what would you like now?”

 

“...”

 

“There must be something.” There always is. She is still just a child, still only five, and there is a toy or a game or a food that she desires right now. Out of consideration, she doesn’t mention it, but she still wants it all the same.

 

A little prodding and she’ll reveal it.

 

“I want...” He watches her face, the scrunching of her nose as she considers the question. She has yet to show any signs of immortality, but that just makes this even more interesting. Is it something she’ll develop as the years go by? If she doesn’t, how long will she remain loyal?

 

“I want nothing. I have father.”

 

She’s surprising him again, looking up with honest eyes. As though there is no other possible answer to that question.

 

Crouching, he hugs her, stroking her hair. “You’re a good child.”

 

24.

 

They keep surprising him, these immortals of his. Now there is a second generation of them, filled with idiots and romantics and battle-worn fighters. They don’t seem to be taking this immortality of theirs seriously, instead playing dominoes and throwing parties and painting the town red.

 

As though they could still die tomorrow. As though they have all the time in the world.

 

The initial plan, of absorbing the last one standing, seems foolish now. They won’t tire of life, not while this family stands strong.

 

“Ronny, leave those papers for once,” one of the men yells.

 

This family he’s now a part of.

 


End file.
